592 



THE NATIONAL GEOGRAPHIC MAGAZINE 



Photograph by H. G. Cornthwaite 



A TOWING KLLCTRIC "MULL" CLIMBING FROM ONE LOCK LKVLL TO THL NEXT 



HIGHER : PANAMA CANAL 



Ships are not allowed to use their own power, but are towed through the locks by electric 



locomotives to prevent accident. 



sail the nostrils when one climbs on its 

 rickety boat wharf. Small dogs sleep in 

 the sun or scratch themselves with an 

 irritated vigor rarely manifested by other 

 dwellers of the town. 



Little naked gourd-shaped babies per- 

 meate the principal thoroughfares and 

 make excellent mudpies between showers. 

 At intervals the Caimanera waterworks 

 is dragged through the plaza on a cart 

 pulled by two goats. Life is leisurely, 

 contemplative, and eminently social. 



"Sis's Place" and "The Two Sisters" 

 and "The American Bar" woo thirsty 

 callers by a display of baekbars stacked 

 with bottles. There are no fronts to the 

 saloons, so that one pauses on the pave- 

 ment, so to speak, to wet an arid whistle. 



There was a time when the bottles in 

 the backbar were racked with the cork 

 ends outward, but on one occasion an 

 Indian-club swinger practiced his art 

 upon the passers-by. Since then the bot- 

 tles have been more difficult to reach. 



The buildings along one side of the 

 principal street are half supported by 

 piles. 



On their verandas, overhanging the 

 water, one sees dark-skinned women 



dressed in flowing white, languidly fan- 

 ning themselves as the ship's barge put- 

 puts in. All the way up the Guantanamo 

 River the atmosphere has suggested 

 Joseph Conrad's African backgrounds. 

 The dark currents, the violent green of 

 the contorted mangroves that curtain the 

 banks, the "Red Mill" at which a sugar 

 schooner bakes lazily in the sun and near 

 which a solitary saloon is thrust invit- 

 ingly forward over the water — all have 

 a remote and exotic air. 



Near the saloon an American sailor 

 with the black-and-green badge of the 

 shore patrol on his arm roasts pro- 

 fanely. There are various areas in Cai- 

 manera which are emphatically out of 

 bounds. 



ONE HOUR ASHORE 



At Caimanera the officers on liberty — 

 gobs never get ashore here — hurry to 

 Pablo's or the American Club. Every 

 moment is of value. The boats rarely 

 reach the dock before 5 o'clock and they 

 start fleetward at six sharp. Pablo and 

 Toney rain perspiration from their dark 

 brows as they shake 'em up. At either 

 hand stands a crockery pitcher filled with 



